Perfect (Especially When Covered in Chocolate)
by PrinzessinEilis
Summary: Tonight is a very special night, and Sirius needs everything to be absolutely perfect.


It's times like these that Sirius wishes he had a house elf.

Not Kreacher, the hateful little bugger. His hateful, disapproving face reminds him entirely too much of his Mother. It'll bring down the whole atmosphere and put them off their dinner.

But, a different house elf maybe.

Oh, he knows that Remus will find the whole spiel far more meaningful and romantic if Sirius does all the work himself, and Hecate knows that Moony, of all people, deserve Sirius' full effort of love in matters such as these, but-

It's only that, Sirius wants this to be perfect.

Moony deserves perfection in _all_ things, just in general. As a matter of course, and so on. And sure, Messer Lupin shan't go about _requiring_ such niceties from the world at large like so many posh and pompous, pureblood _prats_ – has accepted what the Ministry has deemed to be his assignation. Too polite and middle class by far, Moony is, but it's only _more_ a reason why he deserves only the best in life.

And Sirius, like every good posh and pompous, pureblood lad, has never bothered to learn how to cook.

The kitchen back at Mother's house is barely even accessible to humans, and the Hogwarts elves prefer one let them do the cooking thankyouverymuch. Of course, Sirius has since learned to use all the odds and ends in the kitchen. Has once or twice managed an edible batch of pasta or other. But _this_ is no simple spaghetti.

 _This_ is Remus Lupin's _proposal dinner._

And it needs. To be. _**Perfect**_.

Unfortunately, Remus doesn't have perfect. Remus, due to some cosmic bad luck, because gods don't care that he's a good person who should only have nice things in life – Remus has a shite muggle flat in London, two part-time jobs, and Sirius Black.

~3~

For what is probably the first time in his entire life, Sirius thanks the stars that he was born into his family.

Sixteen years of formal dinners and politesse means he _knows_ what he is talking about when he says that _this_ is a damn fine table-scape. All red and rich, milk-chocolate brown; gold table cloth. Who knew McGonagall's obsession with having them transfigure dishware would come in so useful?

Add some candles for ambiance; roses – naturally.

Honestly, Sirius is impressed with himself.

He's not even procrastinating when he stands for a while just staring at what a nice table this is.

Well, that's a lie, but still.

S'nice, is all.

Sighing, Sirius pulls his hair up into a neat bun and slips Moony's lovely tartan apron over his head. Or, it's lovely on Moony, anyway. Tartan is really not Sirius' style. Especially not in _green._ Green really does fuck-all for his complexion, truly. It's one of the reasons he was never a Slytherin. But it's not as if he's going to try cooking in naught bit his shirtsleeves and waistcoat – he's spent most of his budget on buying the rings in his pocket and the ingredients for this dinner, he can't afford to have his clothes professionally laundered, and everyone knows cleaning charms can't magick away stains in clothing.

Only house-elves can do that, and it's already been established that they haven't got one of those in the flat.

Anyway.

So he preheats the oven and sets some oil on the hob to start heating while he readies the lamb, because Sirius knows how to be efficient with his time. He rinses the shanks and cuts off some of the fatty bits, and liberally douses the meat with salt and pepper as per the instructions.

Turning back to the oil he observes the smoke rising from the skillet and takes this as a sign that it's ready. Carefully, he places one of the lamb shanks in the pan, making the oil sizzle and pop, painfully catching him on his bared forearm.

Swearing, he leaps back and rubs at the sore flesh, thinking maybe he should have kept those elbow-high gloves from potions class, but at least his shirt is still clean.

More wary this time, Sirius drops the other shank in beside its brother, then quickly withdraws his arm from the range of danger.

He allows it to sit a moment, letting the meat cook before he grabs a awkwardly tries to flip them over to the other side, frowning when he sees that it's turned far darker than the light golden brown shown in the book. It's not unsalvagable, and there's still sauce to make, but he thinks this may be an ill omen.

He's barely started.

Paranoid, he lets this side cook for only half the time as the first before hurridly depositing them into the little dutch oven they'd got from Remy's mum. There's only the barest hints of browning this time, and the sides still look raw (how is he supposed to cook the sides? Just hold them there? That's ridiculous), but it's not burnt so he's taking it as a success.

Leaving the pan on the hob, Sirius quickly peels and chops an onion, blinking away tears at the potent fumes. He deposits them into the pan and stirs them 'round, waiting for them to get "soft and just starting to brown around the edges". He's no idea how he's supposed to tell if they're soft, but they've got a nice colour going, so he thinks they might be ready. Leaving them for the moment he bustles about the kitchen to find the bottle of wine, but by the time he's got it open and ready to pour, the onions have started going black.

"Fu-uck," he laments, pouring the wine in before any more damage can be done. He mixes the wine and onion, trying to get the sticky bits off of the bottom and hoping the wine will dilute the faint, acrid smell of char in the air.

It's all right.

It's not yet unsalvageable.

He knew going into it that it wasn't going to be picture-perfect. This is still within his allowed margin of error.

After thoroughly mixing the wine, he pours it into the dutch oven on top of the lamb, placing the skillet on the far back corner of the stove where he hopefully doesn't have to look at it anymore because it disgusts him and he hates it.

Thankfully the rest of the ingredients for this portion seem fairly straightforward and don't involve much prep, so he just throws it in and tries to stir it 'round a bit. It calls for a dried pepper, but it doesn't say whether to chop it up or not? So he adds it in whole and hopes for the best.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he puts the lid on and stuffs the whole lot into the oven for the next three hours.

~3~

Somehow, everything comes out fine.

The flat is spotless. There's smooth jazz playing – because apparently that is sexy and romantic. The candles are lit on the table, along with every other candle they own. There's rose petals on their duvet in the bedroom.

The wine is poured, the plates are set artfully with the polenta and lamb, and the chocolate sauce actually came out rather delicious. There's cauliflower hors 'doeuvres with yoghurt sauce; stasis charms on everything. The whole flat smells amazing, and Remus, the beauty that he is, comes home right as he finishes up the chocolate tart.

"...Sirius?" the other greets, taking everything in with wide, unbelieving eyes.

"Welcome home, Moony," Sirius grins, hanging the apron back on its hook. He meets Remus at the table and draws him in close to kiss. "Happy Valentine's Day," he murmurs against the werewolf's plush lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too, Siri," Remus responds, distractedly, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close as he looks at the food prepared.

"God, Pads, this looks amazing. Did you do all this yourself?"

A warmth fills his belly and he nuzzles his nose behind Moony's ear, breathing in his familiar scent. "Mmhmmm," he hums in affirmation, proud and pleased to have so pleasantly surprised his lover. "There's chocolate-cauliflower with yoghurt dip, lamb shanks with chocolate wine sauce and polenta, and chocolate tart. It's not all sweet. I tasted everything; it's all edible. I am quite proud of myself, to be honest with you, Moony."

Remus beams at him and kisses him firmly on the mouth, hands coming up to cup his stubbly cheeks.

"Everything looks wonderful, Padfoot. It's amazing. You're amazing. God, I love you so fucking much," he growls, kissing him again, a little painfully though Sirius would never complain. Moony knows he likes it a little rough.

Regretfully, he pulls away from the circle of Remus' arms, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat and rolling his sleeves back down. "Go change for dinner while I set the tart to cool," he suggests, and Remus wastes no time tugging the ugly polo off his head before he even makes it to the bedroom.

Gods on Olympus know that Sirius would die to ever see him go, but _Merlin_ does he love to watch him leave.

Shaking his head to clear his mind once Remus disappears behind their bedroomd door, Sirius steps back into the kitchen.

The directions say to let the filling refrigerate for three hours, but Sirius knows that Remus is going to want a slice after they have Celebratory, After-Dinner, Valentine's Day, Engagement Sex, and Sirius is realistic enough to know that even all that's not going to last three hours.

Maybe it's a sleight to his stamina, but he knows their sex isn't going to last more than 20 minutes.

Honestly, Remus could fuck him up against the worktop right now and have him coming in about five.

He stares longingly at the bench.

But he digresses.

Unwilling to let the filling sit for the full three hours, Sirius tugs his wand from his back pocket and murmurs a quick _Glacius_ at the pie.

It's possible that time might actually have stopped.

He's a wizard. He's known some fairly improbable things to have happened in his life, what with magic and everything. It's entirely possible that the whole world has simply slowed to a stand-still.

Everything except the chocolate tarte, which explodes violently all over the kitchen.

And Sirius.

Shock has left his mind empty but for a single, fleeting thought that bemoans the fact that he wasn't wearing his apron anymore because this suit is definitely ruined.

He doesn't notice when the smoke alarm starts blaring because the hob has caught fire, since he'd forgotten to turn it off nearly four hours ago when he'd been searing the onions, now quickly catching on the kindling that is spillt chocolate filling.

He doesn't notice that his hands are shaking, or that he's about to break his wand with how tight he's gripping it, or that all the blood has rushed from his face.

He does, vaguely, notice that he feels a little faint.

He doesn't see Remus run out of the bedroom, shirt unbuttoned, or hear him swearing filthily at the sight of the kitchen.

The werewolf shoulders his way past Sirius to put out the fire on the stove, turning the burner off, finally. He presses the button to cease the blaring of the alarm and banishes the smoke before turning to Sirius.

"Siri?" he calls worriedly at the sight of him shaking and bloodless, staring vacantly into the pie dish. Sirius doesn't respond, and Remus carefully walks him back into the dining area, seating him in the closest chair.

Remus kneels in front of him and softly smacks him on the cheek until his eyes come back into focus.

"Are you all right, Sirius?" he asks, gently.

Sirius presses his lips together, though his lower lip wobbles dangerously and he breathes heavily through his nose, hyperventilating, his eyes bright and watery.

"Padfoot, you've got to talk to me," Remus coaxes, licking his thumb and wiping a bit of chocolate filling from Sirius' cheek.

"I was going to propose," Sirius says, hoarsely, apropos of nothing.

Remus's face falls, softening and he climbs up into Padfoot's lap, straddling him in the chair.

"Padfoot," he croons, tilting his chin up to look at him, bending to press their foreheads together. " _Sweetheart_. Of course I'll marry you; ! And you can still propose! Everything else is still perfect. Love your dinner is divine. We don't even need dessert. I don't need you in a nice suit and waistcoat, Padfoot. You're not that kind of man. You're far more suited to leather and denim than silk and fine wool, and god knows I fell in love with you when you were filthy and dishevelled and covered in sweat. And this time, you're not even dirty! You know I only love you more when you're covered in chocolate!" He smiles helplessly at the man, though Sirius only sniffles as Remus nuzzles his nose.

"I wanted everything to be perfect," Sirius whispers, and Remus smiles, sadly.

"Everything still is," he assures.

Remus rises to fetch a flanne to wipe Sirius' face. Siri doesn't move, letting Remus work him however he pleases – which can be nice, of course, in the right context, but that context isn't now. Tenderly stripping Sirius out of his clothes and fetching him a pair of sleeping trousers and an old Tutshill t-shirt, he leaves his _fiancé_ to dress and cleans the kitchen with a few efficient charms. He mournfully bins the pie crust, popping a bite into his mouth. It really was delicious.

Sirius has redressed and has turned himself around to face the table, head buried in his arms, plate pushed away toward the middle.

Remus sighs.

" _Sirius_ ," he says, exasperated, but Siri only bunches his shoulders around his ears, hiding.

Blowing his cheeks out, Remus stalks into the diningroom and forcefully turns Sirius, chair and all, back around. The table wobbles dangerously for a moment at the abrupt movement, and Sirius flails, yelping. In retrospect he probably shouldn't have used quite so much force, but it's done now. Everything settles.

"What?!" Sirius snaps loudly, scowling – which is honestly an improvement, and Remus will take it.

Remus bends, spreading Sirius' knees apart to kneel down between them. Sirius blinks, startled, and swallows. Pulling out the ringbox he'd swiped from Sirius as he undressed him (Remus always was the better pickpocket), he readjusts himself so he's kneeling on one knee, opens the box, and presents the rings to Sirius.

Honestly, he hasn't even had a chance to see what the rings look like yet, and he doesn't care because Sirius' silver eyes are wide and watery, hand clasped over his mouth, and he's the most beautiful thing Remus has ever fucking seen, and even if he isn't allowed to marry him legally, he knows he's going to spend the rest of his life with him, _regardless_ of who proposes to whom, or when, or how, or what the _fuck_ _ever_.

"Sirius," he starts, rehearsed – because of course he's rehearsed this – "You are the love of my life. I would and will gladly spend the rest of my years on this Earth with you. You are so perfect, and so perfect for me, and I thank God every day that I was lucky enough to have met you. I don't care that your tonight didn't go off as flawlessly as you'd hoped, although I am sorry it's upset you so. But truly, everything is still perfect to me. _Thank you_ , for everything. Will you marry me?"

Siri's crying silently nodding his head as he has been since somewhere around "you are the love of my life", and Remus beams at him and rises to meet him in a watery kiss.

~3~

The dinner really was delicious, and Sirius was right in knowing that Remus definitely wanted some chocolate after that rigorous round of Celebratory, After-Dinner, Valentine's Day, Engagement Sex, but thankfully Remus had picked Siri up a box of assorted German chocolates, and they worked out just fine.

Remus thinks, and he really is the one who ought to be making these distinctions, that _everything_ turned out just perfect.


End file.
